


A Proper Angel of the Lord

by comtessedebussy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dirty Talk, Episode Related, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-21
Updated: 2012-11-21
Packaged: 2017-11-19 04:32:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/569126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comtessedebussy/pseuds/comtessedebussy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A missing scene from 8x07. </p><p>"Better?" Castiel asks. But Dean thinks the angel's missing something from his old look: the sex hair. He decides to fix it so that his angel looks like a proper Angel of the Lord again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Proper Angel of the Lord

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a prompt from tiptoe39: Destiel, Endytophilia

God, how he’d missed that coat. 

And the suit and tie, too, of course. The whole ensemble. Castiel’s “holy tax accountant” look did things to him that he didn’t dare to describe. But mostly it was the coat. The one he’d kept in his trunk, from car to car over the year Cas was gone. The one he took out to hold from time to time. The dirty, torn coat he’d looked at in purgatory, that he’d longed to touch. 

It was back in all its glory. Castiel was back in all his angelic glory. On the outside, at least, he looked just like that majestic being that had walked into that barn and terrified him in a way that even Hell hadn’t. He wasn’t the same on the inside, of course. But he was still so patently Cas when Dean looked at him. His angel in a dirty (now pristinely clean) trenchcoat who was still (Dean hoped) in love with him. 

Cas had so obviously wanted Dean in the shower with him (“I’m dirty” was the most obvious come-on in the history of Castiel being obviously obscure) but, well, Sam was there. Though when Castiel had come out Sam had looked knowingly at Dean (a little too knowingly) and said he needed to run an errand. Dean had shot him a silent look of thanks.  
He walked over to Cas, grabbed him by the lapels, and buried his face in the coat. Breathing in the scent of Cas. Running his hands over the shirt and suit jacket and tie, the straight collar, the buttons of the coat. Running his fingers over every piece of what made Cas to make sure it was exactly as he remembered. It was perhaps even a little too perfectly the way he remembered. Cas. 

Except for a few things. Dean missed the breathless, windswept look that had emanated from Castiel when sparks had first flown between them (literally). He missed the wildness. Cas is clean and bright and his tie is lopsided but he just seems so neat and pristine and he wants that confused, otherworldly look back in his angel’s eyes. It’d make the outfit complete. 

“Better?”

Dean had avoided replying when Cas first asked (too busy hiding, well, erm, pretending he didn’t look like a horny teenager having a bad day in class). But now he can come up to Cas and say, with a smirk, “not quite.” 

Castiel looks crestfallen and Dean leans in to kiss the sadness from his face. Slow and tender and increasingly more desperate, and then he pulls away and Cas is looking at him with a sadness still lingering. 

“Is something not satisfactory, Dean?” Castiel asks confusedly, glancing down at himself. 

“Nothing I can’t fix,” Dean mutters, before grabbing Cas by the hair and leaning in for another kiss, wilder this time, messy and desperate, pulling away only when he’s starting to see stars from lack of breath. 

He backs Castiel against the table under which he’d so recently hidden his own raging hard-on and Castiel lets Dean manhandle him, crashsd into the table and loses his balance, falling back as Dean leans over him. 

“Dean – “ Castiel mutters. His hair’s messier now, but it’s still missing the wildness Dean remembers. He grabs another fistful before attacking Castiel’s mouth again. “I missed you, Cas” he mutters after exploring Cas’s mouth and biting his lips. They’re red and wrecked and, with their bodies pressed together, Dean can feel Castiel’s need matching his own. They’re still both fully clothed, layers and layers between them, the many shirts Dean wears like armor and Castiel’s many layers of cotton preventing their skin from touching. Dean doesn’t feel like taking them all off and besides, the point of the entire exercise was to fix Castiel’s outfit, not take it off. 

He yanks Castiel towards him by the tie, mouthing kisses on his jaw and his neckline, popping just one button on that pristine white shirt to give himself more access to skin as another hand finds Castiel’s belt. Castiel’s own hands are somewhere on dean’s skin under his many layers; he’s also gotten the hint and decided to give up on the effort of removing all the pieces of denim and plaid in favor of running his fingers over skin where he could find it. 

Dean pulls away from Castiel’s mouth for a mere minute, his brain trying to remember if there was even a bottle of lube in the room to begin with (Dean doesn’t remember the last time he even looked at a girl, but he thinks it must be before Purgatory and even before finding Cas again. He hasn’t had the heart to go through the motions of intimacy since Cas had disappeared into that lake and this, he discovers, is one of the downfalls). But Castiel just cocks his head at Dean, such a patented Angel of the Lord maneuver, and then there’s a bottle of lube in his hands from God knows where (“let your angel put the devil in you,” the bottle reads, and Dean cracks up slightly). 

He pushes Cas back down on the table and Cas goes, legs wrapping around Dean, ensconcing him. Dean struggles with the bottle in the uncomfortable position, spilling more lube than necessary. He’s undone Castiel’s belt and pulled down his boxers but the rest of the clothes are still on and they’ll probably get lube all over everything but he can’t be damned to bother right now, not when his cock has missed being in Castiel this much. And now Castiel’s pulling at him desperately now, clutching his top layer with a silent plea in his eyes. 

“Missed me, Cas?” he mutters and receives a strained moan in reply. He finds Cas’ opening and God, how perfectly he fits there. How he missed being so perfectly ensconced in Cas, and maybe it’s the pent-up frustration of all the times he couldn’t have his angel or the fact that they’re having desperate, messy, clothed, on-top-of-the-table sex but Dean starts spewing an unstoppable river of profanity as he fucks Cas. Cas just moans at each phrase that tumbles from Dean’s lips, drinking them all down as Dean fills him. “Missed my cock in you, Cas? Filling you up? Missed me fucking you?” The noises Cas lets out are blasphemy coming from an angel and such a turn on; he’s missed reducing Cas to this so fucking much. “I missed you too, Cas. I missed fucking you senseless. Missed reducing one of God’s purest creations to such dirty desperation.” He’s thrusting harder now, and Cas’ moans are getting more desperate. “But you know what I missed the most? Missed you begging for it. Freaking Angel of the Lord, begging me to defile you.” Dean’s well-aware that his train of thought stopped churning along a long time ago. He’s just spewing whatever comes to mind and it probably makes no sense but he can’t stop, just as he can’t stop thrusting into Castiel and drinking in the moans and whimpers emanating from the angel as he grips Dean harder. 

Dean stills suddenly. Castiel lets out a sound that sounds too much like a sob. 

“Beg me for it,” he orders. He doesn’t know where the fuck it comes from but he needs it. And Castiel obliges. 

“Dean, please.” 

A thrill runs through him at the sound, warning him how close he is. One more movement, two, and he could be there. He forces himself to hold still. It’ll be better that way.

“Please what, Cas?” 

“Fuck me. Defile me. Do whatever you want, please, Dean, I _need_ it,” the words a barely-coherent litany, and Dean is merciful. He grants Castiel’s prayers, and it’s mere moments later that he and Castiel are coming with a mingled cry of joy and relief. When they come to their senses again, Castiel’s got jizz all over his tie, Dean’s shirts are torn, and Castiel’s hair couldn’t be messier if a hurricane had been through it. They untangle themselves – an unsuccessful attempt at first that ends in them both nearly falling over, both giggling slightly as they do it. Dean buckles his belt again and Castiel returns the pristine cleanliness to his tie. Dean grabs his hands before he can do any more mojo. 

He looks Cas up and down. The angel’s got the same wild hair and wide, wonder-filled eyes that he remembered from that barn, years ago. His tie’s askew, a button undone on his shirt, and, above all, he’s got that sense of savage, bottled-up wonder in him that Dean has reluctantly been drawn to from their first meeting. 

“So much better,” he says. “You look like a proper Angel of the Lord again.”

**Author's Note:**

> I just have a lot of feelings about this episode. And Dean and Castiel in general, and how much they've changed. Writing this fic was, in a way, almost a form of catharsis.


End file.
